


Dry Bones Dancing as the World Turns

by CinnaAtHeart, SoupShue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Original Work, it's more of an, loosely - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Gen, It's Cinna's Universe, i'm just playing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoupShue/pseuds/SoupShue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The World is a very big place. It only got bigger after the events of the Turning, all of the people The World forgot still live their lives. There are still people living in places the settlers in the Shallows find impossible- citizens of the Deep, survivalists and renegades and recluses and Shamans who live where the Revenants and Shades are born and twisted beings without true form or name stalk the night. The Hunters sometimes cross paths, but for the most part, life goes on. Even in the Deep where the dry bones dance to a mournful tune as the World turns. </p>
<p>CinnaAtHeart's universe, being played in with permission...read "Surrender My Bones" first, kay? Kay!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shadows and Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CinnaAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Surrender My Bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5804650) by [CinnaAtHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnaAtHeart/pseuds/CinnaAtHeart). 



> THANK YOU CINNA YOU ARE AMAZING AND MADE OF AWESOME!

Wesley clucked to the gray ticked mule in front of her as she walked the field to plow, shaking the reins to get the stubborn animal to stop scratching at her flank in the middle of the furrow. The low buzz of insects played in her ears as a bit of warm dry breeze brushed her face. It was hot today and as usual far drier than would be considered average for this time of year. Ever since the Turning the weather tended to follow whatever pattern it pleased with tenacious unpredictability, it could rain for days on end to the point of violent flash flooding or be dry as a tombstone for months. This was the abyss as the silly baby shamans of the settlements referred to it, land deeply affected and controlled by the wild magics, breeding grounds for Shades and Revenants and worse, believed to be uninhabited and too wild for anyone to live. Wrong. Marginalized magic users, shamans, mutants and doomsday preppers as well as a smattering of truly crazy hermits lived quite happily out here in the wilds of what used to be the South and maintained contact with clans and communities along what had been the Eastern Seaboard, one route going into what was formerly Montreal Canada as well as routes in former Mexico and even South America.

There were plenty of well monitored trade routes used, they’d seen this time of devastation and disaster coming a long way off after all, had been preparing and learning to adapt for years and decades and generations, passing on and honing the knowledge that they gained to their children and those who were like minded. They were a hearty and hale community network in the days of plenty and more than plenty and were used to people not listening to what they had to say, brushing it off as crazy babble from hippies and paramilitary survivalist enthusiasts. They weren’t being laughed at now. Most people from the shallows didn’t even remember or care to know that they existed. The few trusted shallowers that knew them were so called “hunters” who bumped into them during forays into the “deep” as the baby shaman shallowers referred to it.

Usually such contact occurred when a hunter or group of hunters happened to be crossing a trade route at the right time or coming across some of the small established clans that occupied the large swathes of middle ground between what was almost untouched and what was so warped and twisted by the explosions and the burning, the contamination and the passage of time as to be foreign and alien in nature. The main difference between the shallowers and the shamans was that shallowers tended to yearn for all that had been lost and decimated during the main events of the Turning and they fought desperately to get it back… to go back to what they considered “normal” Wesley snorted out a dry chuckle at that thought causing the mare to twitch a long floppy ear in her direction as she pulled the plow. The shamans knew it would take generations to even remotely restore what the Turning had taken- they chose to flow with the changes in the land and the animals, in the water and the weather rather than to fight what was. Hunters- thank all that was light and good in the earth – appeared to be the most realistic and pragmatic of the individuals who remained to carry on in the Shallows after the devastation

She was pulled out of her musings by a jerking shift in energy at the edges of her awareness. Shade. Sighing she pulled out the silver tipped bolts engraved with the special runes of life and set them in her crossbow, she staked the plow and murmured to the mule. An alarm pulse was sent out to the rest of the clan through their weave in case something bigger was afoot as well, a distinct possibility though unusual in the heat of the day when most shadow creatures preferred to lay low. Wesley grimaced slightly at the sickening feeling – the queasy metallic tang - in the air as she turned to face the disturbance head on gripping her silver locket tightly as she began to breathe in an easy grounding pattern feet planted firmly shoulder width apart. She stared hard into the shadows and waited.      

It moved with a rolling, nearly stumbling sort of amble in the shady spaces at the edge of the clearing, a strange patchwork of dark syrupy shadow tendrils and brief flashes of several furry impressions when it had contact with the sunlight. Immediately Wesley shifted her intent from “kill” to “cleanse” it was a bad idea to waste meticulously crafted and painstakingly blessed crossbow bolts on such a target, not to mention that if they could cleanse the creature it would likely remain in the area and still be highly useful. Creatures touched and changed by wild magic often were. Useful or deadly or both. The shade was about the size of a medium dog though the gait and build was much rounder and awkward than a typical hound with facial features that were a cross between a raccoon and a cat.  It was clear that something had disturbed the creature, but it didn’t seem highly panicked as though a Revenant was on its heels more disgruntled like a larger Shade disturbed its hidey hole and ousted it.

 Still gripping her locket, Wesley held a gentling hand out to the mule who twitched and snorted, tossing her head at the sour predatory smell in the air, much more sensitive nose overpowered by the pungent reek roiling off the creature. Only when the mule settled again did Wesley hold her hand out palm forward fingers up toward the creature. She began to chant softly, calling the power she could feel pulsing in the air and the ground to her, feeling it run into her body like a streaming tumbling brook, the creature’s head snapped up and it turned toward her to stare in her direction with unnaturally pale eyes in a dark and shadowy face drawn to the sudden influx of clean magical energy. A small tumble of white light tinted with flashing hints of green and blue gathered in Wesley’s outstretched palm as she continued speaking softly, a fitting rhyming lilt suddenly coming to her as she spoke her intentions aloud to the beat of the original chant.

_“I call upon the summer winds, I call upon the open sky. I call upon the clean bright earth to cleanse the shadow passing by. The wild magic playing here has had too much free reign, I call upon the purest light to help this shade be sound again.”_

As she continued speaking the colors swirling in that ebb and flow of white light began to deepen and brighten, tinging the original magic with their essence. She felt the jolt of the other shamans in her clan’s weave adding a bit of complexity as they tuned in to what was happening or turned the majority of their attentions back to other projects. She felt Gary, Matthew, Dawson, and Mitch give a positive feeling nudge of approval in her direction as they went back to scouting for bigger dangers at the edge of the territory that the clan claimed as their own and she felt some of the women and the younger children turn full attention to the cleansing. She smiled a little to feel the jittering excitement of the little ones, no doubt they were hoping for a new pet to cuddle and dote on.

The creature scented the charged breeze that wafted towards it from Wesley’s flashing palm, the shadowy blotch of its snout twitching and trembling in the air as it tasted the magic Wesley had gathered. It edged into the light, the patches of fur becoming more defined in the sun, almost seeming to shed the oily rolling shadows like a blanket or a film was being peeled away, the coat color was hard to describe in the moments that it was revealed to Wesley’s vision. It blinked and squealed wretchedly as the stronger rays of light hit its eyes, but as it was reeling about to flee back into the trees, Wesley released the magic that she held. The energy twisted and spiraled as it flew, pulsing toward the creature given an extra push from the clan that was observing the goings on, developing a mingled muted rainbow tail of magic. It hit the creature with a quiet, dull sort of popping sizzle and the creature made a strange noise somewhere between a hiss, a whimpering grunt, and a bark. When the light of the energy faded, a strange creature lay panting in the shade’s place.   

It was very furry, covered in a mass of frizzed out coarse hair with a wavily banded bottle brush tail like a raccoon though the tail was shorter in comparison to the rest of the body than a usual coon tail, it had a sturdy rounded square sort of stocky build halfway between the body of a bobcat and a raccoon but with the rangy leg length of a hound. The front limbs were slightly shorter than the rear limbs and Wesley could see the coiled power and dense heavy muscle in them even though the creature lay panting on its side in the mottled shade at the edge of the clearing unmoving.

Wesley moved a bit closer to it and when it didn’t react other than to flick an ear at her and turn its head slightly she crouched down near it to get a closer look. The creature’s face was a short, gently pointed diamond with a bit of a furry ruff and a round snout- there were bight intelligent eyes looking back at her framed in markings that looked remarkably like little eyebrows in a soft honey color. The keen, tufted triangular ears never quit moving.   

It was a rather handsome creature though it was one of the strangest that Wesley had ever seen. It made that strange rumbling whining moan sound again as it turned to look up at her. It opened its mouth and a long pink tongue dotted with dark blue and black patches of pigment darted out to lick at its face. Wesley smiled. The kids were going to love it, probably shriek and smother it within an inch of its life.

“Well, are you friendly little critter?” She murmured to it softly with a smirking half-smile, careful not to show teeth. The bushy tail thumped the ground and the creature struggled on to its chest before regaining its feet and stalking over to sit about three feet in front of her. It was even cuter while sitting, becoming rounder and even more plush.

“The children are going to love you, we’ll let them name you eh?” She questioned it softly as she held her hand palm down with a forefinger extended slowly out to it to sniff. Its face twitched, and it looked at her, gaze assessing, the ears twitching forward and then back and down as its head tilted to the side. It gave a strange sort of chirping yip and then ambled over to her, bumping her outstretched forefinger with its nose before tucking its face under her hand so that she could scratch it.

In short order she had it charmed and it had decided completely uninvited to climb up her forearm and curl around her neck over her shoulders like a very heavy shawl, the quiet rumbling emanating from it conveying its extreme pleasure with the position. Wesley danced around and waved her arms in protest trying to shoo it off, but it had uncanny balance and a tight grip on her clothing and her hair. The mule rolled an eye at her antics, clearly unimpressed the sun shining brightly on the sweat dampened hide as she turned away from Wesley and began lazily cropping the grass at the edge of the field.

“Of course, your royal highness! I am but the lowly servant who freed you, of course you may ride me like a pack animal! Get off you! You are very heavy!” The saucy thing gave another chuckling sort of chirp, nimble forepaws clinging to her hair when she tried to dislodge it. When she began to tire a bit from the fight, Wesley gave it up and muttered to herself before throwing her hands into the air causing the mule to toss her head a bit in surprise.

“Fine! You win this round you little scamp.”

Wesley sighed and turned toward the mule who gave a disgusted and derisive snort as Wesley got the plow to rights again. Upset at being taken back to task

“I wholeheartedly agree.” The unnamed creature’s only reply was to begin “grooming” her hair, destroying the braids that had been keeping the tresses out of her face.     

Wesley cursed softly, swatting at the creature. It paused in its ministrations and then began to use its tongue instead.

“You’re going to be trouble.” She muttered as she turned to finish plowing the plot she’d been assigned. Taking time for a shade cleansing or no, handling the annoying results of her cleansing or no, this was her chore for the day and the clan needed her to get it done. Today. While she still had most of the mule’s attention and cooperation, grudging, stubborn and ornery though it was.   


	2. The Hermit

                He crawled out on to the dusty rock glittering with mica and other unnamed Turning touched minerals and flopped down with a sigh. The lizard sunning itself on the rock blinked and flicked its tongue.

                “It’s mine too, don’t sass me.” He snapped glaring back at the yellow and orange creature.

                The lizard stared at him for a moment with one beady black eye, clearly unimpressed before turning its face back into the sunbeam it had claimed. They basked together man and beast upon the stone in still silence for a long while marked only by the shift in warmth and wind playing over their hides before he felt that nearly imperceptible shivering shift and sat bolt upright to glance quickly around his clearing wary and furtive. Something big was moving, he felt it in the air and the earth, it trembled and shivered up the boulder and shocked into his frame as he stared hard out into the world. A powerful surge in energy zapped down from the sky to meet the earth and an answering rush of awareness from every attuned energy within a neat ten mile radius perked up. He swore loudly and vehemently as he glared daggers at the spot where the disturbance emanated from.

                “What are those crackheaded Triskellions doing now!” He spat as he vaulted from the rock face and began skittering back to his nice hovel, he had to move and fast, while there was still sun to scorch the earth, or his home would be crawling with Shades before he could blink. “I’ll have the bloody sodden damned coming out my ears and biting my ass before I can think to sit! TEN MILES!” He shouted picking up the pace to nearly a flat out run as he sensed the growing greedy hunger for energy from the foul unnamed and unnatural things that lurked in the darkness. The muttering and cursing never slowed as he gathered all of his belongings into the ratty half mouldered canvas satchel and tucked his leather battle bag close against his chest. He shot out of the shallow cave like depression in the side of the hill and sprinted for the highest crest with its ring of standing stones, the only bastion of safety he could hope to survive the coming onslaught at, there was no way he could reach the stupid tent city now even if he had wanted to, and he most certainly didn’t want to. Not now, possibly ever.

                “This is going to be just fantastic!” He snarled bursting through the cutting brush streaking the vegetation with sweat and grime and blood to see his hill standing steady in the afternoon sun, the stones absorbing the energy of the daylight hours and shining faintly in its light. The gathering of energy rankled him, it was worse than sensing the roiling of an oncoming thunderstorm when the ground was too dry to accept the harsh deluge of the storming rain. It was a promise of pain and punishment and he was only prepared to handle so much at one time. One or two of the blasted things barely caused a blip on his radar, he only got slightly nervous at five or six in his immediate vicinity. It wasn’t as if the bigger badder threats didn’t get pummeled by the idiots who thought hiding behind the walls on the regular was a good idea. But every damned wretched creature from ten miles around! His knife flashed brightly in the sun as he sliced both his palms open and began drawing on each of the stones the frantic and angry waving of his arms occasionally spraying the ground with more crimson droplets as he muttered and raved in turn. When the last stone was covered in the necessary glyphs he spat into his palms and clasped them tightly together a dull ruddy light briefly flashing as he closed the twin wounds with a derisive snort and went to fetch the salt from the battle bag.

                A generous application of salt laid down heavily in brisk flinging motions outward from each of the stones made a strange tableau on the hill. It almost appeared to be a starburst or a rudimentary drawing of the sun. As the celestial body the hill mirrored in the heavens slowly crested towards the western horizon, he took out the silver daggers, his blowgun and silver pellets, the small gold bowl and blessed water and the small brazier packed to the brim with sage. Then he settled himself dead center in the circle and clapped his hands. The glyphs he had painted on the stones roared to life as the stones took on a burnished gold-orange glow from the last of the sun’s rays and began to pulse with power, the salt charged to an almost blue-white flare and the circle closed sealing him in to a bubble of pure energy. He would be exhausted by nights end…exhausted or dead and he did not have the heart to care save to be enraged that the ants in their little hill had somehow caught the attention of a ravenous band of armadillos out for a snack and caught him in the crossfire. IF he lived there would be words. So many words. IF he lived.


	3. The Hermit's Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunters from New Triskellion aren't the only ones who have to deal with the fallout. There will be WORDS when this is over if the Hermit has any say...and if they live.

The first screaming howls had him setting up the brazier, he snapped his fingers and lit the bowl of sage, the fragrant smoke rising up through the dome and trailing down the sides to nestle and curl in between the stones, shrouding his position from above. He stood, rubbing his hands together briskly before he flung them straight up in the air. A beacon of pure, cleansed life energy shot into the sky pulsing with alternating flashes of hot ember and cold starlight. He walked the circle and anointed the ground at the base of each stone with a small trickle of holy water. He could sense them converging on his position, every shape and size and power level. Whatever strong flash those Triskellions had constructed woke every unholy being in the vicinity. He started muttering curses under his breath again as he stood braced for an assault, feet apart, arms crossed. He’d have to spend days cleansing his territory, days and weeks. His nose wrinkled at the smell of rot and wrongness, the crawling inky feel of the dirty energy surging toward him ahead of its hosts, eager to consume that which had been cleansed.

“I will not be party to your stupid offering. May your union in the beyond be beset by bad weather, may it be impossible for you who are twain to ever be apart, may you be rewarded the restoration of your sanity!” He spat, eyes glaring skyward, as the first twisted shapes darted around the base of the hill seeking to find a breach in the wall. There was none to be found, he had reinforced the perimeter of this hill twice a day every day since before the Mad Titan had decided to sacrifice the populace of Earth to his lady-love Death. There were wells and foundations of power sunk like the roots of a tall tree, and yet his energies were flexible like the reeds and rushes, deep and strong. It was the only way to survive such a tide. He scowled, he was going to have to burn reserves he did not want to waste to clean up after all of this dark and twisted magic. Most of the idiots behind the walls thought if you killed the body and blasted the energy center, everything was cleansed. Eighty percent clean was not cleansed.

“Me and my stupid sentimentality!” He snapped to himself as he waited. The souls inside the walls didn’t realize how often he swept up after them. He didn’t want their veritable succulent feast to come back and bite them because the residual dark magics found suitable hosts within the walls. He didn’t wish for stupid young bucks hoping to blood themselves and prove manhood to die within sight of the city for sheer cocky stupidity.

It would be messy and unfair for the entire population of this place to lose hope for survival at such a time. Situations were already dire, hopelessness would not help matters at all.

The first entity slammed itself against the wall of power, the scent of charred hair, smoke, and ozone rose after the brief flare of the impact. The thing howled and he grinned, one firm, pointed flick of his finger and a tendril of energy sparked out like a lance to pierce the thing through the chest, seeking the nodule of dirty energy within its center and grabbing hold. He turned his hand palm up and crooked the same finger in a beckoning motion, the tendril ripped free of the thing, wrapped firm around the swirling bit of greasy magic, slowly strangling and scorching it. The grotesque being disintegrated in the wake of the tortured wrongness leaving its chosen host. With a pointed exhale in the direction of the dust and ash that had been the entity, he cleansed the patch of earth beneath the remnants. The closing of his fist caused the tendril of light energy to flare and collapse the twisting shadow in its grasp. He smiled. The next eerie howl had him turning to lock on to his newest target.

The Triskellions were in SO. MUCH. TROUBLE. Sweat ran feely down his face, the smell of his expenditure mixing with the sage smoke and the stench of burning rot and melting magics. There were billowing piles of dark ash slowly turning into an acrid mud under the force of the pounding rain, and wasn’t that just the best possible insult to add to injury? He was burning through reserves he really wished he did not have to in order to keep dispatching the creatures and cleansing the area as best he could. He could feel the growing tide of restless tainted energy from further out as the Triskellions battled more of the things, he would have more energy to fight with if he just stopped protecting the stupid tent dwellers with their heads in the sand. He cursed his own sentimentality once again. He just couldn’t do it.

He sighed. There would be words in the dawn of this fight. This was angering and distressing enough. 


	4. The Wayfarers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all has gone to ruin in this chaotic and dangerous time and one may find a hearth and helping hands where one least expects it on the road.

She was a Wayfarer- tender of roads and forger of paths; keeper of the inn and hearth for the homesick as had her family for generations been. Though in the years before the Turning it had not been as literal as it had been or was now. In the days of busy travel predominated by car and plane which did not see the same perils of the road as beset them now or in eras past her family had specialized in selling hunting and camping gear, in guiding tours through wild places, in guarding that which needed to be _kept wild_. Alina’s family were Wayfarers and Camp-Grounders content to forge the way and make home wherever the winds and the road took them.

Alina was closer kin to the rather large branch of her extended family who owned and operated bed and breakfasts in quaint little destination towns. They were Wayfarers also, but Hearth-Warmers- those who made a place for tired, travel weary feet to rest and recuperate.

In this time, they were called upon in full capacity as Wayfarers both Camp-Grounders and Hearth-Warmers for it was dangerous and difficult to travel even far from where the worst destruction had taken place. The Camp-Grounders watched the roads for trouble and tended to the little groves and grottoes suitable for rest; they warded and blessed the campsites used most often on the way by those whose feet and beasts plodded on the winding paths to trade news and goods through the twisted landscapes marked by the Turning, they carried messages between Hearth Homes. Hearth-Warmers were the keepers of welcoming doors open on the winding roads, lights blazing in the midst of darkness, tender hands for those who had been harmed on the journey, a hot meal and a warm bed.

Wayfarers were keepers and passers on of knowledge; guardians of the road; an offer of comfort in a twisted and desolate wilderness. By their fires was safety; at their hearths was healing; in their hands was hope. The paths they trod turned out better for their walking, for they were one with the road, instruments in the hands of Fate and their feet did not often turn astray. Wayfarers were tenders of civilization in a world which had been sacrificed and descended to chaos but for the scattered pockets of light and life and hope. They were bringers of change as the Wheel of Fate kept turning with the mighty forces at work in the world attempting to balance out once more.

Alina was a Wayfarer, a Hearth-Warmer, and she warded her stretch of the road zealously. She tended her fire and stocked her larder and stored her herbs of healing and the precious medicines and supplies that could be scavenged from the wild desperate lonely places where once thrived thousands of souls. She watched her stretch of road and kept it as clear of debris and danger as she could, always well aware that the road was a river of fate, it brought blessing or destruction with the wind and the weather. She traded news and care and supplies with those who came her way, the Shamans and settlers and survivalists who made their way happily where many others were convinced no life could be. She kept mail for those who knew her home, stocked supplies for those who lived nearby, made connections with those Wayfarers whose feet were more mobile than her own. There was a settlement of Shamans who had a Companion- a smaller once warped creature that their magic had cleansed- trained to carry messages back and forth to Alina’s door, and she could call for them if she had need.  

The road was an instrument of Fate, if one did not have a firm destination in mind, one could find they had travelled in quite a different direction than they thought they were going. Indeed the various Hunters from the lighter lands who sometimes stumbled down this way looking as though the wheel of fate had run them over were often frightened and wary, startled and suspicious to find her cottage open to them, but she was a Wayfarer, and very few were barred entry at her door.


	5. Battle Magic

There were giants out for blood tonight; beings so full of twisted dark devouring energy that all they were was hunger and lust, hurt and hate, un-quenching thirst. Their greed and disease was nearly too much to be contained in a solid form and so they hovered somewhere in between. Beings of smoke and ash and shadow and sorrow, restless horrors of tooth and claw. There was no way for his beacon to draw every one of those powerful creatures to him and his heart hurt for those Triskellions who would inevitably fall, their lives snuffed out untimely. He sniffed, tossing his head back to fling his sweaty hair out of his face. There was despair and fear on the air, a taste and a scent of the reality of battle. They were losing good men and women to the clash, woefully unprepared to deal with such entities. He could practically taste the death and desperation in the wind.

He sighed and surveyed the land below his hill. He would have to burn his anchors out completely to annihilate all of the entities that were swarming the hill now, incinerate years of careful foundations but it would be worth it to keep the titanic beings off the babies from the city. Worth it to ensure at least some of them made it home to whomever was waiting, they would not make it home without his help, there was the dead weight of knowing certainty borne of experience boiling in his chest. With a longsuffering sigh he shouldered his canvas bag and drew on his cloak, packed up the essentials of his war bag, snuffed the smoldering sage in the brazier and settled himself in a firm-footed fighting stance in the dead center of his standing stones.

He clapped his hands to a particular beat and began a slow, sonorous chant that breathed and pulsed with an ancient rhythm, thudding and breathing like a living being as the shine of the magic grew brighter and brighter. He drew power like a river from the wells sunk deep into the earth and the grass flared with growth under the onslaught. The chant grew in pace and volume with the walls of clean, pure magic flaring brighter and brighter until they took on the brilliant hues of a full on flame rather than the banked glow of an evening ember until at last with a raging shout he flung his hands straight out to the sides of his body and the dome protecting him exploded violently outward in a brilliant nova. The entities clambering for a piece of him beset by the hunger of dark energy went up in flares of brilliant white light, shredding before the tempest of energy, obliterated as though they had never been.

He set off at a ground eating run with a pace born in battles and marches he could almost hear as he went, cutting down forms full of shadows and shame as he streaked toward the distant sounds of battle he could just hear over the pounding rain. His body brimmed with magic, trailing cleansing fire like a comet as he moved toward the biggest force of darkness. With luck he could deal with the worst of the blight and be out of the area before the Triskellions noticed him. Then he snorted at his own stupidity. Luck had nothing to do with it and the city was still due the sharpest tongue lashing he could dredge up.

“Curse me and my stupid sentiment.” He muttered darkly as he blasted an entity on his left to ash and ducked a swiping claw coming at him from the right. He was bursting with the residual wells of power he’d packed into the hilltop, his skin glowing a faint amber in the dark and water, a diffuse source of light under the roiling clouds and streaming droplets bright enough that he could see where he was going, bright enough to attract attention. The sounds of howls and clashing weapons, the sizzling of magical energy cracking hot through the rain and the revenants, screams, grunts, and moans came to his ears before long. He ignored the chaos with the ease of long practice and battle hardened wisdom, streaking straight through the hot zone of combat directly at the largest entity. He corralled it with a vicious swipe of his hand, casting a torrent of non-verbal spells so that it was contained and then blasted apart, the greasy remnants of the creature shredding and almost melting away in the rain.

He left the smaller beings for the Triskellions and hurtled toward the next monstrosity of a creature, saving his energy and magic for the beings he knew far surpassed the skills of the babies from behind the wall. There were a fair number of the hulking nightmares to deal with and he was hopeful that he could eliminate most of them before they could take out too many of the more immature hunter force. He was well aware of battle blindness and using it to his advantage, a few of the Triskellions would surely notice his passing but they were fighting flat out to death and destruction, locked on to the targets in front of them and sizing up what weaknesses to exploit to keep themselves alive. A warrior had to be considerably blooded and battle hardened to keep his wits and his ways about himself in order to notice the scope of an entire field while in close quarter combat. Even those Triskellions who had been in the military before the Mad Titan’s Sacrifice were at a disadvantage in this- unused to a face to face fight. Unused to fights which were finished by magic. The military of the Before dismissed magic as a fairy tale. The military of Before almost universally using high powered long ranged weapons as their primary tools; was equipped with drones and planes and nuclear weaponry; was using heavy artillery options like tanks to take out the bigger opponents.

That sort of distance was not possible in the landscape of this fight, energy creatures had to be fought within close range often arms-reach to arms-reach. Energy creatures required magic to be dispatched, and casting magic from a long distance was a very advanced skill, there were very few casters who could be effective in combat who could cast from further than about twenty feet away among the city dwelling peoples. He was at vast advantage. His experience was borne from a different form of warfare, his eyes attuned to a different battle map, his hands used to the heft and haft of close combat weapons that could deal damage not only to flesh but which could hold a magical charge. The Triskellions were only beginning to learn the art of mage-weaponry, only beginning to believe it was possible, even now most of them knew not what the events that they called “The Turning” really were. Only now would they actually begin to listen to him, if they lived. If they lived.

He blasted the second high-powered creature to muddy, inky dust as he caught the tail end of a scent of a spell. Asgardian. That was Asgardian magic. Lots of it. The one the Triskellions called Wanderer had Asgardian runes, had been instructed in mage-craft by Thor himself- clumsy bumbler in the arts though he was. But this was a different signature altogether. Asgardians.

“Well.” He spat, using the flat of his hand to fend off an attack coming at his head as he charged toward his newest targets.

“That’s just brilliant. Stupid, arrogant, battle proud pricks.” He muttered as he loped through the slogging mud and water and gory ash of the field.

“Just great.” 


End file.
